Snowdrops And Roses
by Niphredil Of Doriath
Summary: Frodo, Sam and Rose, Post-Quest, Pre-Elanor. Some Angst and a little romance.


Characters: Frodo, Sam and Rose. Post-Quest, Pre-Elanor. Some Angst and a little romance.  
  
I wish to acknowledge the fanfiction stories of Tulip Proudfoot and Ariel. I have not consciously copied anything, but I loved their fanfics and was very probably inspired by them when I wrote this.  
  
  
  
This IS a Mary Sue - but there is plenty of Frodo, Sam and Rose in it too. The romance part is at the end. So it's not EXCLUSIVELY Mary Sue. This is quite a light-hearted fic. Here goes:  
  
  
  
  
  
SNOWDROPS AND ROSES  
  
  
  
By Niphredil of Doriath  
  
  
  
"Galenas", repeated Rose, as she sponged Frodo's brow with the sweet, aromatic infusion. "No, athelas", said Sam, smiling a little. "Galenas was the word for pipeweed, remember. "Ah, yes. Galenas - pipeweed; athelas - kingsfoil. Is that right, Samwise?"  
  
"So Strider said to the Warden - and to Merry. He's mighty learned, is Strider - or King Elessar, I suppose I should say. Master Pippin told me all about it. He was terribly worried about Mr Merry that day. He took a hurt from the same creature responsible for this ." - here he broke off as he gestured towards the prone, feverish figure on the bed, and half choked as grief and resentment passed through him. Then he recovered himself. "But Mr Merry seems to have no lasting trouble from the injury. He wasn't pierced by that foul King; he only dared to strike it. Well, so did my Frodo, but any stroke he ever dealt was repaid to him at least twelve times over. With interest."  
  
Sam could not suppress the bitterness in his voice. His teeth were clenched, as though he was trying to hold back tears. Rose glanced at her husband; she scarcely knew what to say. "Come, Sam", she said, taking his hand. "Mr Frodo gave himself freely, and would have it no other way. He accepted what might come, no matter how unfair. It doesn't make it right, I know. But at least his cousin was able to avenge this dreadful wound, and even if we can't seem to cure him, we can at least make him as comfortable as possible."  
  
"You're right, Rose", said Sam, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. "But I've never seen him take sick in September before. Is that cursed wound just lying in wait all year round? Waiting - waiting to sink its claws into him again! Anticipating that bleak October - it can't even hold back for two weeks! Every time he falls sick, the sickness is worse than the time before, and takes longer to pass. And now it decides to start on him early. Perhaps in the end it means to close its jaws around him and leave him no peace at all. Why can't they just let him alone? What more do they want from him? Cursèd wraiths! They crackled out and died, but they'd done their damage all right."  
  
Rose was doubly concerned. It was unlike Sam to be like this. Not that he was exactly being negative, but his hopeful spirit seemed to be worn thin, almost to a temporary cynicism. She coloured with resolution, and looked at him. "Now, Samwise", she said gravely. Why don't we at least move him out of this dismal room, and put him where he can see the sunshine? You said yourself, last night, that too much writing and remembrance may have brought this fit on. Dark rooms and candles, and scribbling far into the night. It's not healthy, you know." Frodo had gone back into the little bedroom he had always favoured when he was a boy, which he had always stayed in when visiting his Uncle Bilbo, long before he actually moved in there. It was not dismal; it was cosy, but it only had a small window, and caught very little sun. Frodo had liked to burrow in there and read when he was young, curling up under the little window behind the stacks of books, promising Bilbo that he would be careful with the candle, and smiling at Bilbo's chidings against reading late and straining his eyes. Perhaps that was why Frodo had chosen this room now. He seemed to want to retreat into the comfort and innocence of the past; the days free from care and anguish. But Sam looked at Rosie and agreed. This place was doing him no good. He nodded, and drew back the coverlet. Clad in soft white pyjamas, Frodo murmured softly and turned onto his side, curling himself into a foetal position. There was a slight tang in the late September air, but the warmth of summer still lingered, and the flowers and leaves were still languidly saturated with it. It seemed worrying that Frodo trembled slightly at this slight exposure, and that his good hand flew involuntarily to his left shoulder as he rocked back and forth. "Come on, Mr Frodo", said Sam with gentle firmness. "Let's be having you." As if he did it every day, Sam lifted Frodo in his arms and carried him out of the dark bedroom, carefully cradling his head against his breast. Sam and Rose would bring light into his heart again, whether he willed it or not.  
  
Rose opened the doors of the best bedroom. This had been the chamber of Bilbo's parents, and Frodo had tried to persuade Sam and Rose to take it, but they, equally, had wanted Frodo to occupy it, and Rose had kept the bed carefully aired. Sunlight streamed through the wide window, and the large bed was soft and inviting, fashioned in rich deep wood carved with intertwining flowers, and curtains of embroidered green velvet hung from the four posters, but were tied back so as not to seem oppressive. Rose drew back the deep green eiderdown and the spotless white sheets, embroidered with celandines and forget-me-nots. Sam settled Frodo in the bed and touched his brow with his hand. He seemed both hot and cold. His arm was chilled, but his face was flushed. Sam drew the covers half-way up his breast, determined not to overheat him and make him sweat. He would monitor his temperature carefully.  
  
"He's still delirious", said Rose. "The fit has quite exhausted him. He should rest quietly now." "But he's still in pain", said Sam. "I can tell. I know his expressions so well." "Sam, you've done all you can. Stay with him for a while. I'll be back soon."  
  
Sam sat with Frodo's hand in his and tried to smooth away the strained expression on his master's face by caressing his brow. "What is it, Mr Frodo? Who's hurting you now? Can your Sam help you? Can your Sam chase them away?" Frodo grimaced as he turned in his sleep, but Sam's soothings seemed to comfort him, for he moaned softly and settled back on the pillows, though his murmurings did not become more coherent. "That's it", murmured Sam. "Rest easy". He began to sing a soft lullaby, nodding a little himself by his master's side.  
  
When Rose came back into the room, she was carrying two wide blue vases, almost spilling over with fragrant roses, freshly cut from the garden, where they were still blooming, late into September. Soon all would be spent, but she had cut many of the last blooms to adorn this room - deep, rich red, snowdrop-white, delicate, fragrant yellow, dusky violet, and a rapturous, blushing pink tinged to the core with a golden hue, as of sunlight trapped and nurtured. "Stay put, Sam", she said, and retrieved several more vases and bowls from the kitchen. The room was soon filled with their sweet, pungent aroma, and awash with their colour. Rose put large bowls of the tender blooms on the bedside tables. This chamber had one of the loveliest views of the carefully tended garden, which Sam had secretly sprinkled with some of Galadriel's fine elven dust, and which was now ablaze with an ecstasy of flowering splendour.  
  
Not for nothing did Sam love him, she thought, as she gazed at the figure at rest in that nest of flowers; pure white garments, rich, chestnut hair, now slightly tinged with silver, but becomingly so, like nets of cobweb filigree woven over him as a crown by the fairy-folk that tended on changelings in the stories she had heard as a girl. His colouring was pale but beautiful; his cheeks flushing slightly, like ripening apricots caressed by the sun.  
  
"Frodo", said Rose, and took his left hand. It lightly clasped hers in return. She stroked the long, white fingers down to the carefully tended nails, then kissed the wounded hand and laid it in one of Sam's. She wiped the glistening brow, which sparkled ever so slightly, like stars on a moon- kissed sea, and then dipped a cloth in water and gently cleaned and dried his face. Then she took a bottle from the bedside table, emptied some into her hands, and rubbed them together. She massaged her palms over Frodo's face, and the pungent liquid seemed to refresh him a little, bringing the slightly flushed apricots of his cheeks a little closer to peaches. Half in a dream at the scene of beauty before her, she took rose petals of every colour she had found in the garden, and cast them about him.  
  
"Rose water", he breathed softly. He settled, dreamily, on the bed. It was the first coherent words he had spoken since the fit had taken him, and Sam had found him in his study. As white as a sheet he had been, his face a clenched expression of pain and sorrow. His face had looked hollow, and he had stared back vacantly when Sam had tried to rouse him. Then Sam, quite alarmed, had gripped his shoulders, and called him, urgently: "Frodo! Frodo! Come back!" At that Frodo's lashes had twitched, and he had tried to focus his eyes on Sam, whose voice had taken on a tone of command, as though Gandalf or Elrond himself were trying to pull his master back from the abyss of his suffering, to rescue him from the swirling, spiralling pit of madness that had almost claimed him months ago. Yet Frodo had known it was Sam, and had fought to communicate with him, but no words would come. "I'm here, Frodo. Your Sam is here. Take it easy", Sam had said. "Deep breaths, deep breaths. That's right. Now, can you tell me where it hurts?" Frodo could not, but he had raised his right hand, gesturing towards his left shoulder. He tried to touch it, but the pain was paralysing him, and his hand had stayed poised in mid-air. Sam had taken it and kissed it, and laid it to his shoulder, as gently as he could. "Here?" Sam had asked quietly. Almost imperceptibly, Frodo had managed to nod, and a tear had rolled involuntarily down the left side of his face. Sam had kissed his brow and hugged him to his breast. He glanced at the open pages of the Red Book. "Weathertop", he read. "We made camp, and kindled fire at Strider's behest. But our camp was attacked nonetheless. We saw black shapes in the distance, and they seemed to be sniffing, hunting, trying to track down the Ring ." Here Frodo's script had stopped. "No wonder", muttered Sam. "This has probably helped bring on the attack early. Why does Mr Frodo have to write the confounded story anyway? Mr Bilbo can't have realised what state his nephew was in when he asked him to do it."  
  
Then he had opened Frodo's shirt to examine the old wound. As always, there was little to be seen, but Frodo's left side was cold and paralysed again, just like it had been on that painful road to Rivendell. Sam had kissed Frodo's shoulder. "Come on", Sam he said. "Let's draw you a hot bath, and thaw this chill out of you", preparing to lift him. Frodo's eyes had flashed at him, not angrily, but showing that he wished to walk himself. So Sam had helped him to stand, and assisted him towards the bathroom, and he had somehow managed to stumble there, with Sam supporting him all the way, although his limbs were very stiff and his left side would hardly co-operate at all. A bath had, indeed, eased him, but Frodo had sunk into a delirium, and from time to time he moaned with pain. Sam looked at his ashen face and thought of the healing plant in the garden. Rose knocked at the door; she had watched Sam help his master down the corridor, and respectfully gone into the nearby parlour to wait for him. But after a while her anxiety had got the better of her. "You can come in, Rose", said Sam. His master was wrapped in towels. "If you don't mind, could you help me to dress him for bed?"  
  
"Of course, Sam", she had replied, fetching soft, clean night-garments. "Just wait for me a moment." She had entered the room, and they had managed to dress him, without any affront to his dignity. His mind seemed to be far away, but he trusted them. "Why, poor thing", said Rose, touching his brow. "What is wrong with him? He's so pale, and he only half knows he's here, or so it seems." "It's his old wound, Rose", whispered Sam. But I think we can bring him round. Could you fetch some of that healing plant from outside - you know, just outside the back door? I planted it there in case it should be needed. And could you boil a kettle of water? I'm sorry to ask you, but if you do that, I'll carry him to bed."  
  
"Of course I'll do it", said Rose, and left them. Sam made to pick Frodo up, but Frodo seemed to become conscious of what Sam was doing, and held out his hand. So Sam helped his master up again. Frodo knew which way he wanted to go, and Sam had assisted him back to the little bedroom he occupied of late. He was tempted to put him somewhere else, but Frodo seemed to be showing a firm and stubborn homing instinct, and Sam's main priority was to put him to bed so that he could treat him, and his master could get some proper rest, which he would not, if he were to be put somewhere he did not want to be and become fretful. Once he had relaxed a little after the first treatment with hot water and athelas, Sam became less anxious, and although he did not leave his side all night, he allowed himself to slumber in a comfortable chair by Frodo's bed, holding his master's hand. Rose curled up on a sofa in the same room, and covered herself with a blanket.  
  
When Frodo lay unconscious, helpless, so fragile yet so unutterably beautiful, all formal modes of address evaporated on the lips of Sam and Rose, for all they wished to do was ease and heal him. Frodo cast a spell without will, deceit or wickedness; his aura moved through barriers of flesh and convention and pierced the hearts of those who loved him most. Even those, like Saruman, who were exasperated at his pity, at his refusal to stoop to revenge, could not help but feel a respect that would have blossomed to love, had they allowed it to. So too, might the hearts of those who had murmured in anger against his orders to lay down arms at the Battle of Bywater, and before the doors of Bag End, where Curunir, once the mightiest of the Istari, had expired in ruin before their very eyes. In view of Gondor's laws, upheld more harshly in times of war, Faramir had taken a serious risk to his own life in protecting the Ringbearer and speeding him on his path, even trusting the sorrowful, high-souled halfling's seemingly absurd faith in the necessity of merciful treatment of the Gollum creature. Lobelia had glanced at him, as he had freed her from her narrow cage, and seen no trace of triumph or self-righteousness, but only the compassion and unspoken understanding of one who had known only too well the trauma and humiliation of imprisonment. She had clutched his arm, and tears had pricked her aged eyes, as finally she seemed to understand him. In a flash it seemed to her that, had her own son been more like him, many sorrows might have been averted. But worse news was to come, worse than she could ever have imagined in the lonely months her bellicose spirit had taken to sweat out its venom in that dank and unlit cave. "Come, Lobelia", said Frodo, in a low voice, which had trembled with pity. "Let us get through the crowd, and then I'll make you some tea, somewhere where you can rest easy." There, in one of the old houses that had been left standing, he had told her the bitter tidings, as gently as only he knew how. "I tried to save him, Lobelia. I do not ask your forgiveness. I was too late, and nothing I can now do will compensate you. But I will see that Bag End is restored, so that you may go back there as soon as may be for some rest and peace. I never truly felt it was mine anyway." "No, my child", she had croaked. "I was wrong all these years. It is you who must forgive me, and forget, if you can." As she had looked at Frodo, she had comprehended that somehow he had aged, by at least a generation, in one year, and the depths of his eyes told of more. It seemed that his face was almost as lined as her own. In an unprecedented act of tenderness, she had stroked his cheek with her gnarled hand. "I see that others beside Lotho have been sacrificed, and some have deserved it less", she had said. Her eyes had then fallen on Frodo's left hand, and he had choked back tears, wiping his eyes in a peremptory fashion. "It is over, Lobelia. Do not concern yourself with me." But Lobelia had called for witnesses, so that she might sign over Bag End to his keeping. She was still stubborn and cantankerous to a fault; darkness and privation had not starved those qualities out of her. "May you be happier there than I", she said. "I have learned my lesson at last." She would have none but Frodo drive her to Hardbottle, and as she had cursed and reproached herself for a bad parent whose grasping examples had bereft her son of his life, he had told her that he himself had failed, much worse than she, but that the Wise had held it no failure and urged him to forgive himself. "Anything you need, Aunt Lobelia, let me know", he had said as they parted. "Write to me if you lack anything, or if you need to talk. I will be there for you. I promise. And none deserve to learn lessons so hard as you say you have learned." "As we have learned", replied Lobelia. Take the advice of the Wise, Frodo Baggins. Indeed, the closest Baggins remaining to me now. Goodbye."  
  
The sweet liquid on his temples slowly unknitted his brows and seemed to smooth their lines into gentler contours. His head stopped pounding, and his fever abated. The landscape of that face told of a dreadful odyssey; cloven into it were parched wastelands, dreadful cliffs, perilous falls and tunnels of agony. Yet there were also glistening streams, gentle waterfalls, sweet and pungent glades, and golden woods. Youth relaxed back into his features, and the corners of his lips, losing their pallor, began to glance upwards.  
  
"Yes, rose water", replied Rose. "To refresh you. Do you like it?" "Very much, very much," he said, dreamily, and closed his eyes. Then, presently, he said: "I smell pipe-smoke", just as dreamily. He was still delirious, but he seemed to be returning to them a little. "I can put it out, Mr Frodo, if it troubles you. You used to be comforted by the smell of a pipe, although you don't seem to smoke these days." The smoke wound around the bed in gentle spirals. "No. No, I like it. I don't smoke now, no, but I like it. Reminds me of Gandalf. And Bilbo. And Sam." "But I am Sam." "Yes; yes of course you are. And this is your sister Marigold." "No, it's my wife, Rose. Marigold was here yesterday." "But yesterday we were in Ithilien. What was Marigold doing in Ithilien?" "No, we were here, in Bag End. Marigold came for tea, and left as evening fell. You went back to your study. And later on, you had a turn. Remember?" "A turn. Of course, the road turned. Round that stream, up to the bank where the asphodels were, and the bluebells. And then I went to sleep, and when I woke up you were cooking squirrels. Sam, why were you cooking squirrels? "It weren't squirrels, Mr Frodo. It was rabbits." "Don't be silly. Rabbits don't have long bushy tails. I suppose you'll be telling me we ate oliphaunt stew next." "No, Mr Frodo. I wouldn't presume to tell you that. My pans weren't big enough. Now how are you feeling?"  
  
Sam and Rose had had difficulty keeping themselves from laughing at this interchange. It seemed that Frodo was coming back to the lands of the living, albeit by a slightly tortuous route. Sam had heard Frodo murmur in his sleep as he had kept watch over him in Rivendell, and Ithilien. Sometimes more coherently, and sometimes less. But never quite so articulately, and never without pain or care. Frodo was clearly in no distress at the moment, and Sam was content. He was resting, and would come to his senses in due course. Maybe too soon, if he were indeed to wake to pain and despair.  
  
"Feeling", repeated Frodo. "Feeling - cool. My face feels cool. Pleasantly so." He opened his eyes, then closed them again. "This can't be Ithilien. I don't remember roses in Ithilien." "No, there weren't any. And this isn't Ithilien. It's Bag End." "Well, if you say so." "I do. And now I say you should drink some water. Your voice is croaking." "But I can't drink rose water. It's too flowery." "Well, funnily enough, I have some ordinary water, specially procured from the well." "Sam, you're so clever. And so resourceful. I've always said so." "Indeed you have. Up with you, now."  
  
Sam and Rose lifted Frodo and piled up the pillows vertically behind him, so that he could sit back and drink. Then Rose poured cool water from a pitcher into a glass, and Sam helped Frodo to drink it. "Another, Rose", said Sam, and Frodo readily took it. Then Frodo looked back at Sam. He seemed to become more lucid, but not fully so.  
  
"Sam, you must be very busy, if the garden is as pretty as this. There's no need to take care of me as well, you know." "Oh, isn't there?", said Sam, rather amused. "I have more precious blooms to tend than roses and carnations, thank you very much. And my main concern is here. The garden can wait." "But it clearly hasn't. And it's too much for you, what with your forestry work all over the Shire." "No place in the Shire means as much to me as this. And Rosie's brothers helped with your garden while I was away, and still do. Plus I cheated, and used a little elf-magic." "Elf-magic. Poor Elves. Poor Galadriel. I wonder what the Enemy did to her gardens. I wonder if they are fading yet. She said my coming to her land was as the footsteps of Doom." "You can oblige me by wondering about happier things, Mr Frodo. There's no cause for you to be upsetting yourself about their fate. It seems to me they didn't upset themselves too much over yours." "But I'm just a sapling to them, Sam. Galadriel is older than the Sun and the Moon." "Then all the more reason for them to care for those as have a much shorter time to live than they do." Sam stopped at that, and bit his lip, and flushed red. Frodo saw his expression change, and wrinkled his brows. "Sam, I thought you liked Elves", he said. "I do, I do. You know I still love the Elves. How could I not love them, when I feel as if one of their close kindred is speaking with me now? How is your shoulder feeling? Do you think you could eat something now?"  
  
Frodo considered the question, then turned to Rose. "Rose", he said. "How rude of me not to speak with you. How are you today?" "I'm keeping fine, Mr Frodo. How is your head?" "It's a little hot, but it's stopped aching quite so much. My fault, you know. Bilbo used to tell me not to work so late into the night. But my eyesight seems fine to me." He closed his eyes, then resumed. "That's a very pretty dress, Rose." "Yes, Mr Frodo. You helped Sam to choose it. He told me." "Did I really? It reminds me of the grasses of Rohan.", he said, as he touched the soft material of the sleeve. "I only saw that land on the way home, you know, but it's a green I will never forget. Maybe Sam will take you there one day, when the roads are repaired and put in order. That's if you ever want to travel. It can be a nasty uncomfortable business, as Bilbo would say." "I'm sure it can, sir. I've never been far from home myself. Now, how about what Sam said? You've had hardly anything to eat since yesterday teatime. I'm going to fetch you a bite to eat." "It's all right, Rosie. I'll do it. He flung back the eiderdown, blanket and sheet before they could stop him, and was about to get out of bed, when it somehow registered that he was only in thin but warm pyjamas. He looked comically distressed - that is, genuinely distressed, in a way quite comical to anyone looking at him. "Sam! Please! Get my dressing-gown! I'm not used to exposing myself in front of ladies in this unseemly fashion." He curled up and crossed his arms over his breast. "I should hope not, Mr Frodo!", said Sam, in a pretence of opprobrium which barely suppressed his uncontrollable laughter. But he lightly tossed the covers back over Frodo to save his master's embarrassment, and quickly fetched the guest's dressing-robe from the peg where it hung, ready for whoever might come to stay in Bag End and be offered the best bedroom, as it had been throughout Bilbo's time at Bag End, and Frodo's too. "Here we are, Mr Frodo", he said, to appease his discomfiture. He laid it over the bed, just out of Frodo's reach. "But there's no cause for you to be using it. Rosie will fetch your supper from the kitchen. She's prepared it, and she knows where it is." "Kitchen", repeated Frodo. "But I need to go somewhere else as well." "Oh, I see", said Sam, chuckling a little. "It must be all that water!" "Well, you told me to drink it!" "I did indeed, Mr Frodo. You've had quite a fever. I've seen you with worse, but it was bad enough, and it's important to take plenty of liquids when you're like that. And not even the elf-prince of the Shire can be expected to defy the pull of gravity." "Indeed not", replied Frodo. I tried telling that to the Fellowship, when they were so insistently following me everywhere, but did they listen? Is it really any wonder I ran away from them? They could be thoroughly exasperating at times. Protection is one thing, but suffocation is quite another. Not that you two are suffocating, my dear", he said, turning to Rose. "Quite the contrary." Sam knew his master so well, and was usually able to get him to co-operate in his own healing without seeming to boss him around. The terrors of Mordor, when Frodo had gone virtually insane, were a different matter, but that did not bear comparison. "One needs a sensible friend like Sam", resumed Frodo. "And Aragorn was right, in his way, and a reasonable chap. He said to me: "Very well, Frodo son of Drogo", or something like that. "You shall have your hour, and you shall be alone. But do not stray far, or out of call." Stay within the guidelines, and don't behave like a duffer, in other words, but I will respect your privacy. Perfectly fair. No wonder he's King. So off I went to think, and a hard choice it was, if choice you may call it. Off I went, as I said, to think, and to - well, you know." (Frodo gestured euphemistically). "Then up comes none other but the heir-apparent to the Stewardship of Gondor, complete with his noisy horn and silly vambraces, and he says to me: "I was afraid for you, Frodo of the Shire. None of us should wander alone. You least of all; so much depends on you." "By the petticoats of Varda, Boromir of Gondor", I expostulated. "Has the hand of the Enemy indeed grown as long as this? Can't a hobbit go for a wee in peace and privacy?"  
  
"Hmmm. And what was his reply, Mr Frodo?" "Now you mention it, I don't remember, Sam. But I seem to recall that he was somewhat taken aback." "I can imagine he would be", said Sam, who was sure that Frodo had said nothing of the kind. Frodo never lied, it was not in his nature, thought Sam, but words like "duffer" and "expostulated" were more Merry and Pippin's style, or maybe Bilbo's. In other words, Frodo was still in a delirium. But not a terribly deep one. He would come round by and by. Sam would not try to shock him out of it; that would do far more harm than good. And anyway, it was quite amusing, thought Sam, a little wickedly, although as always he had Frodo's best interests at heart.  
  
"And now you must excuse me", said Frodo to Rose, very respectfully. "Sam, could you?" "Of course, Mr Frodo", said Sam. He passed Frodo the dressing-gown, as Frodo's gesture had asked him to. Then when Frodo struggled a little, Sam took his arms, one by one, and helped them into the sleeves, and lifted him up to smooth the back of the robe under him, and then drew it around him under the covers, and fastened the belt. He would never let Frodo think he could not manage by himself. "Thank you, Sam", said Frodo, throwing back the bedclothes. "Be back soon."  
  
Sam said nothing, but let Frodo get out of bed by himself, ready to catch him if he should stumble or fall. He did neither, but climbed out of bed, turned towards the door, and stood poised, with a puzzled expression on his face. He put his hand to his right temple and scratched his head a little, then turned to Sam.  
  
"Sam", he inquired. "Where is my bathroom?"  
  
"Down the corridor to the right", replied Sam, stifling a guffaw. "Let me show you." And he took Frodo's arm and led him there, at a steady pace, to do what a hobbit has to do. Rosie walked the opposite way, to the main kitchen, chuckling as she went. It did her heart good to see Mr Frodo so carefree, for whatever reason.  
  
When Frodo had relieved himself and finished washing, he straightened himself up, stepped back from the washstand, and stumbled slightly.  
  
"Whoops", he said, as though he were slightly drunk. "Whoops indeed", replied Sam, catching him. "Better now?" "Indeed so, Master Samwise. "Ready for supper?" "I believe I am. Are you?" "I believe I am." "Good. But I fear I am hardly dressed for it." "Not going to stand on ceremony in Bag End, are we? Even in Minas Tirith they only wear fancy buttonholes on high days." "I bow to your judgement, Sam. Let us dine."  
  
Sam thought for a moment to take Frodo into the parlour, but as they walked back down the corridor his master breathed heavily, yawned involuntarily, and seemed to falter, and Sam decided that he had worn himself out and he had better put him back to bed. After a good night's rest, he would probably come round again. The worst was past, Sam felt. Rosie looked at Frodo's face and nodded to Sam, who led Frodo back into the best bedroom, where he suffered Sam to put him beneath the covers. Together they fed him some nourishing soup, which Frodo took with their assistance. He grew drowsy again, and Sam removed some of the pillows from behind his master's back, so that he could lie back.  
  
"Go to bed, Sam. You look tired", said Frodo, drowsily. He seemed more aware of things now, although the delirium came in waves. "I will, when I'm satisfied you're all right. You've been very ill, you know." "It's no reason for you to make yourself ill too", said Frodo, slowly. "Mr Frodo, will you kindly refrain from talking such tripe? I'm staying here until I'm satisfied you're out of danger. A fine healthy specimen I'd end up, if anything happened to you. I'll sit by your side for a while and have a smoke." "Here's your pipe, Sam", said Rose, passing it to him. "And here's my leaf", said Sam, taking it from the bedside table. "Galenas", said Rose, correctly. "Galenas is right", said Sam. "Galanthia", said Frodo, half in a dream. "No, Galenas, Mr Frodo. "Galenas it is called by the noble", is what Strider told Mr Merry. "Pipewood to us, westmansweed to the "vulgar", whoever they may be, and galenas to the noble. It must be an elvish term, although I've never seen any elf smoking it." "Sweet Galanthia", whispered Frodo. "It may be called sweet, and it certainly calms the mood, but the name is galenas, sir."  
  
Frodo raised his eyelids. "I beg to differ, Sam", he said. Her name was Galanthia. And her mantle was woven with flowers of that name." "But pipeweed isn't a flower. Leastways, not in the decorative sense." Sam was becoming slightly drowsy himself, and had not quite followed what Frodo had said. "Galanthia is not pipeweed. It's the name of a flower." "Not a flower I've ever heard of, and I've planted a fair few in my time. The term must be a variant form of galenas, surely." "It most surely is not. You know the flower, but not the name. It's an ancient name for a delicate little white flower, usually called a snowdrop. I don't know where the term originated from; one of the old languages which influenced Westron, perhaps. Her mother and father were quite learned, and the name she chose for her sounds much more full-blooded than "snowdrop". And a strong and spirited girl she was too. She thought it strange that she should be named after such a tiny, fragile flower. Always laughing, she was, climbing trees and tearing around the Shire. Quite the tomboy. Her parents almost despaired of her for a while." "Girl, Mr Frodo? I thought we were talking about plants." "Well, lady, I suppose one might say. Rich chestnut hair she had, long and thick, with a reddish tinge to it. Beautiful hazel eyes; strong, handsome features. But she was still a girl, strictly speaking, when I first knew her, although still a good ten years older than me. She was going to go and beat up Farmer Maggot for me once, but I managed to dissuade her. "Oh yes? And how did you do that?", said Sam, pricking up his ears, the drowsiness dropping from him as a slightly wicked gleam entered his eyes. "Really, Sam, he's supposed to be resting!", chided Rose. "I'm going to hear what secrets Mr Frodo's kept from me all these years. He always becomes strangely forgetful when speaking about visits to the woods. And when he feels cornered, he always starts talking about Elves. Hmm. Elves, yes. There must have been a huge northwards migration of elves through the Shire as Mr Frodo was growing up, is all I can say." Rose slapped Sam's thigh in opprobrium, but she wanted to hear the story too. "So, how did you dissuade her, sir?" "Oh, I told her it was all my fault, and that I'd learned better. She was still furious at anyone daring to beat me, and was about to march up to his farm and give him a damn good hiding." "I nearly gave him a damn good hiding myself", said Sam. "But say on. How did you stoop her" "Well, I - erm - silenced her ravings, as it were." "Silenced her ravings? How?" "Well, you know." "Hmm. Do I, sir?" "I should hope so. You're married, aren't you?" "Yes, but I'm thirty-nine! How old were you?" "Oh - about twenty, I should say. It was just before Bilbo took me in hand. He thought I needed a guiding hand.." "It looks like you did. Frodo Baggins, Cad of Buckland. Whoever would have thought it?" "Sam, the idea! That's more Merry's department, if you please. I don't know how it happened, but her lips were so full and red, and her hair was so thick and shining, and her cleavage so - well - generous and shapely - and, Eru forgive me, but - I kissed her!" "You wicked hobbit! And what did she do? Slap you?" "Funnily enough, no", said Frodo, and a smile spread over his features as he passed into the realms of warm but distant memories. Sam listened as Frodo unravelled them, slurring slightly, and sighing in his semi-conscious state.  
  
"Galanthia." "Galant-hi-a. You're lisping it." "I am not. Lisping is for the affected." "No it isn't, it's a whistling sound that happens when you have gaps between your teeth." "Galant-hi-a. Better?" He pulled a face at her, and she laughed. "Perfect. So what are you doing in the woods?" "Minding my own business." "Oh, really? That's a fine and gallant attitude, young Frodo." "Oh, I didn't mean it that way. I came into the woods to think." "Thinking may undo you, if you do too much of it. What are you reading?" "Oh, just my Sindarin primer. My uncle gave it to me." "Sindarin, eh? So you're a lover of elves, are you? Very rare nowadays, even amidst the Took-clan." "You're a Took, then? I've never seen you at Great Smials."  
  
Galanthia was one of the North-Tooks, from Long Cleeve. She was full- figured, but slim-legged for a hobbit, with unmistakable Fallohide colouring. Her father had married a rustic hobbit, born on the wrong side of the blanket, and some of the family had taken it slightly ill. Even the Tooks cared a little too much for respectability these days. They had not exactly socially excluded her or her parents, but her family simply preferred to keep themselves to themselves, and found clannish hobbit burrows rather stifling. Galanthia's mother was of elegant bearing if not of gentle birth, but did not feel quite at home amongst some of the Tooks.  
  
"That was the first time I met her. She was interested in my book, and we learned some of the declensions together. I told her that I found Brandy Hall rather stifling, too. So she took me further into the wood, and showed me a little tumbledown house where she used to go when she wanted to be alone. We talked together, and laughed a lot. She was so easy to get on with, I found myself talking quite freely with her. And we trusted each other. We became close friends that year. I never had a sister, you know - or a brother, for that matter. Neither did she. I didn't see quite so much of her when Bilbo adopted me, but I still walked in those woods at times. She was lovely, warm, kind. She taught me so much."  
  
"But did you love her, sir?" "Love her? At that time? It's hard to say. I suppose I did. I cared about her very much. She was older than me, and I was too young to marry. And she never encouraged such a thought. She seemed to think I should remain free." "And did she love you?" "We didn't really need to use words like love. We comforted each other. We were friends. And we both loved Elves. We often met them together. But we didn't need to be together every minute of the day. We would often meet, by chance, and that was always joyful and sweet. I liked to walk in the woods in the very earliest part of spring, too, when the snowdrops were just appearing. We wouldn't gather any until there were plenty of them, but she gave me some that she had preserved, once, and told me to think of her when I looked at them. She had had them set in crystal for me." "She told you to think of her? Did you part, then?" "She was going back to Long Cleeve. We became very close again after Bilbo left the Shire. For a while, I didn't quite know what to do. I couldn't settle, and I felt lonely. She saw it, one day when we met in the woods. I was thirty-three then, and more than able to provide for a wife. She still had not married, but she looked at me gravely, and I knew better than to ask her. She just took my hand and led me to our favourite haunt. I was lonely, as I said, and full of grief, but I would not have dared to compromise her. But she took my face in her hands, and began to kiss me, deeply, passionately, and before I knew it we were locked together, drinking each other in. The feeling was sublime; so blessed, so right. The rain fell gently outside the house, as we undressed each other and made tender love. All night. And yes, by that time, I loved her."  
  
"But why did you part?" "It's hard to say, Samwise." Frodo sighed. "Sam, I'm not an urgent or passionate person. I loved her, but I would not have stopped her doing what she wanted to do. We were lovers, on and off, over the next few years, but she was always urging me to do what I had to do. She said I had wanderlust in me, and that I would not be at rest until it was fulfilled. And I was happy, too, in a way. I didn't try to push her." Frodo closed his eyes.  
  
One cool evening, about twelve years ago, Galanthia had put into his hands a gift of snowdrops set in crystal, with a dark wooden surround; the very blooms he had picked for her on the day of their first meeting, when she had told him her name. Frodo smiled at the memory of her; her dark blue dress, with the white ribbons at the front and the embroidered flowers about the hems and neckline. "Goodbye, Wood-Wanderer", she had said, before tenderly kissing his brow and running down the winding lane away from him, her skirts and petticoats dancing behind her.  
  
Frodo had looked for her for many years, in a way. Not intently, but when he had visited elves, he had sometimes wondered if she, too, wandered the woodlands. The elves had maybe guessed his thoughts, but had said nothing, and he had not asked. In the fairs and the market-places, he had glanced around, but no trace of her had he found. Perhaps she had married. Frodo smiled, if a little sadly, and hoped that she was happy.  
  
Rose's eyes glanced towards an ornament on the dressing table, and she walked towards it. Beside it was a leather-bound book, with more of the delicate white flowers pressed and preserved between the pages. She brought both of them to the bedside, and laid one of the blooms into Frodo's left hand, smoothing it along his slender palm. Frodo seemed to look at it, and he smiled.  
  
"Niphredil", sighed Sam, as he stood and kissed Frodo's hair. "Or one of its close cousins. I think it's safe to let him sleep, now, Rose.  
  
Rose kissed Frodo's cheek, and she and Sam left the bedchamber.  
  
"Oh Sam, he's so nice!", said Rose. "He is, Rose. You don't mind sharing me with him?" "I am rather grateful to you for sharing him with me. But will you ever let on to him what he told you?" "We shall see, Rose. We shall see."  
  
And, wrapped, as it seemed, in a fair memory, the Ringbearer fell asleep. 


End file.
